


RP-Related Drabbles

by livvylive



Category: Forgotten Realms, Neverwinter Nights, The Legend of Drizzt Series - R. A. Salvatore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4210143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livvylive/pseuds/livvylive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles and shortfics about Neverwinter Nights and Legends of Drizzt canon characters, as well as various Forgotten Realms OCs. The only OCs I lay claim to are Aruya, Thorn, and Danial- all others belong to their respective muns on Tumblr.<br/>Warnings:<br/>Chapter 3- Suicide, Character Death<br/>Chapter 4- Abuse, Child Abuse NonCon, Violence</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Grumpy Elf and his Cat

With a soft mewl, Jaral jumped onto the desk and plopped his furry butt right on top of the notes Sand was reading. Surprised by the cat's arrival, the wizard sternly looked down at his familiar. " _You_ are not supposed to get on the desk." Jaral stared back at the elf, apathetic to the scolding. With a sigh, Sand scooped up the orange feline and deposited him on the floor. Looking around his shop as he did so, Sand noted with some surprise that the sky outside the window was pitch black. Time had once again escaped him as he tried to decipher the notes he'd received from Aldanon.

Turning back to the notes in question with a frustrated huff, he tapped a finger on the desk and considered the sheaf of papers with pursed lips. Torn, jam-stained, and written in a scrawl that resembled the marks on Jaral's wood-and-rope scratching post, they were easily the poorest example of scholarship and research that Sand had ever seen.

But they were also the only notes on the Tome of Iltkazar that he'd ever seen.

He'd spent the last three days trying to work his way through them. But for all that effort, his own (neat and organized and decidedly _not_ stained) journal had barely half a page of writing in it. And what he had written down was starting to resemble what he suspected with a sinking feeling was most likely a jam recipe.

With a frown, he reached for his quill to try and get through at least one or two more pages before he simply gave up for the night. Before he could grab it, however, an orange-furred paw batted his hand away.

Startled, Sand glanced over to see that Jaral was on his desk again, staring at the wizard reproachfully. Sand stared back, and without breaking eye contact reached for the quill again.

Without breaking eye contact Jaral batted at Sand's hand again.

For a long moment the wizard and the familiar just stared at each other, eyes narrowed. Then, with an exaggerated feline yawn, Jaral stood up, strode across the desk, and stretched out on the notes. Once he was comfortable, he closed both eyes and started to purr. When Sand just stared some more, Jaral lazily opened on eye and meowed at him.

Finally, the wizard shook his head in annoyance. "You're not going to let me get any more work done, are you, you infuriating excuse for a feline?" Jaral purred louder in response. Sand huffed. "Don't think I won't hesitate to put you out on the street for this." The cat didn't dignify that with a response. Sand tried cajoling next. "I need to translate those notes- they could very well be the last chance to save the information in the Tome of Iltkazar." No response. "I'll give you fish with breakfast tomorrow if you move." Nothing. "I'll never give you fish again if you don't move." If looks could kill the glance Jaral shot Sand's way would have struck him down. But the cat still didn't move. Finally recognizing that he wasn't going to win this battle, Sand made an undignified face at his familiar. "You are a disgrace to feline-kind." Standing, he blew out his lonely candle and scooped up the cat. "An absolute disgrace," he continued, lifting the cat high to look him in the eyes. "I don't know why I keep you," he said seriously. Jaral batted at Sand's face. With a sniff of disproval, the wizard tucked the cat under one arm and made his way upstairs to his bedroom.

The notes could wait til tomorrow.

He really didn't know why he kept the cat.


	2. Police AU

Nevalle growled and ran his hands through his hair. It was only 7:30 in the morning, and he already had the mother of all headaches. And its name was Sand. Glaring at the person seated across the desk from him, he growled in exasperation. "What do you _mean_ , you're out of disinfectant? We just ordered some last month, Sand!"

The forensic technician sighed. "If _your_ workspace was frequently contaminated by blood and bullets and whatever else your officers deem necessary to make _my_ problem, _you_ would disinfect it frequently, too. I need more. You _can_ make that happen, can't you?" His tone suggested that Sand doubted the police chief's ability to do something so simple.

Which, of course, only fueled his frustration. "You don't _need_ to sanitize it all that often! Illindriel doesn't go through _half_ the cleaning supplies you do, and he's our bloody coroner!"

Sabd grimaced at the mention of his estranged brother. It seemed to be some cruel trick of the gods that they'd ended up working in the same police station. "Yes, well... _his_ standards of cleanliness leave a great deal to be desired." He sniffed. "And, if you ask me, he enjoys his job _far_ too much."

Nevalle rubbed at his eyes. It was too early for this. "I'm not asking you," he explained through gritted teeth. "I'm _telling_ you- you're not getting more disinfectant until next quarter. Buy it yourself, or take it up with your Captain."

After Sand left in a huff, Nevalle sighed heavily and poured himself another cup of coffee. It was his third of the day, and he suspected he'd go through a pot or more before lunch.

Sipping at the burnt and bitter brew, he returned to his desk and flipped open the thick file that had been waiting for him when he'd arrived earlier that morning. The mayor insisted that Nevalle personally review all on-going assignments, which meant that he had the dubious pleasure of spending each morning reading through whatever notes and paperwork the Captain remembered or could be bothered to give him. Waiting for the caffeine to hit his system, he started leafing through the paperwork. Looked like Aruya had finally been put in charge of the K9 unit. It was about time. She and Draug, her runty German shepherd, made the best K9 team Nevalle had seen in years. Safiya was still working with Sand on the evidence from the Neverwinter Ball incident. Gods, he hoped she wouldn't catch wind of the disinfectant fiasco and come complaining to Nevalle. The icy woman scared the hells out of him. Oh, Khelgar was up for another promotion soon. That was good, he deserved it. Cinekina was still undercover with the vice squad, Thorn and Danial were working the Hosttower murders, Balithor was on the Alamondar case... Nevalle studied each of the reports, signing off where necessary and scribbling little notes and memos on the side.

Once or twice he paused to frown at some new problem. He'd really have to talk to the Captain about Neeshka. She was good at her job, and seemed to have a knack for figuring out where the next big heist would be pulled. But with the way things went missing around her at the station, he was starting to wonder if she was really any different from the petty thieves and burglars she brought in. And it looked like Qara was stealing chemicals again. She kept insisting that they were for her research, but Nevalle suspected the bomb expert just liked blowing things up. _Thank the gods she's on our side..._

One page in particular had him rolling his eyes. It was yet another letter from a local musician. Some criminology professor, Aldanon or something, had come up with a crackpot theory about music and crime. This musician, Grobnar, had caught wind of it and immediately begun pestering the city council to start some ridiculous program. The Wendersnaven Initiative, he called it. Wanted to teach the homeless to play kazoo or something. Nevalle crumpled up the letter and tossed it at the trashcan. He missed, but he didn't really care.

His fifth cup of coffee was halfway gone by the time his paperwork was done. Taking the drink with him, he grabbed the finished file and left his office. He'd drop the papers off at the Captain's office, make the rounds to see what anyone else needed from him, and then head to city hall for his meeting with Mayor Nasher.

Along the way to the Captain's office he had to duck behind a corner to hide from Torio, the media liason and PR expert. She was a slippery bitch, but good at her job. But she'd been angling for a career over at city hall for years now, and had somehow gotten it into her head that Nevalle could help her get there. For the past year or more she'd been pestering, blackmailing, threatening, and attempting to seduce him into helping her. But luck was on his side (for once), and he managed to avoid her.

By the time he returned to his office, he'd acquired a whole new armful of paperwork. Just about every officer seemed to need something from him. On top of that, he had to sign off on a forensics hire, a botanist or something named Elanee. _And_ he'd run into that private investigator, Jarlaxle, who'd been looking to learn why he and his partner hadn't been paid for their work as consultants on the Pook case. Jarlaxle was good at what he did, and had connection that put the police force's to shame. But the PI was _not_ patient when it came to his pay, and his partner, Entreri, gave Nevalle the creeps.

Massaging his temple in a futile attempt to banish his continuing headache, Nevalle flipped open the first of the new files. It looked like yet another sexual harassment complaint against Bishop. But before he could read more than the first line, however, an accusatory voice broke his concentration.

"Nevalle. We need disinfectant, and Sand said you refused to order any." Nevalle looked up to find Safiya glaring at him from the doorway.

  1. This was going to be a long, long day.




	3. Goodbye

Nevalle cleared away the last of his papers, tucking them in a small drawer beside his chair. That done, he rested his elbows on his now-clean desk and looked around with a sigh. His office, though usually at least somewhat tidy, was now clean to the point of emptiness. With the papers gone, and his few personal items tucked away in a box in his room, the only sign that anyone made use of the room was the lack of dust on the shelves and tables. It didn't feel like an office, much less a home. But a home was what it was, more or less. Hells, he spent more time here than he did in his property in Neverwinter. So yes, this was a home then.

And he was leaving.

He and Ophelia would depart for Luskan at dawn. He'd heard rumours that the Knight Captain had been sending out letters to some of her companions. Farewells, perhaps. Nevalle had briefly considered doing the same... but, then, who would he send them to? Lord Nasher had given him the order to go, and the other members of the Nine knew he was leaving for a mission. There wasn't any point in writing to them. And, truth be told, Khelgar was the only member of the Nine he'd be inclined to write to even if they didn't know. With Melia and Calum gone... Idly, Nevalle wondered how many true friends would attend his funeral, if he didn't return. Sure, there'd be nobles and knights who showed up because it was expected of them. But how many people would be there because they wanted to be, because they mourned Nevalle's loss?

Expression grim, he pushed the thought away with a shake of his head and stood. It didn't matter. He had his orders, and he would see them fulfilled. If that meant his death, so be it. Still, he wished there was more he could do to prepare. Ophelia had tried to play her games, of course, with her romance novels and acting advice. Nevalle wasn't an idiot, and he knew covers and disguises were necessary. But she had gone too far. Then they'd both snapped, frustrated with the situation and with each other, and she'd taken charge of the rest of their preparations. Which mean Nevalle was left to wait.

Well, now his waiting was at an end. Tomorrow they'd leave for Luskan, the knight and the Knight-Captain traveling undercover to steal information from under the noses of Neverwinter's most dangerous enemies. With a quiet sigh, Nevalle crossed to a small stand of drawers and withdrew a single piece of parchment. He studied it with a little frown, then shook his head. He'd spent hours working on the damn thing, going through it line by line or just staring into space while he tried to figure out what to write. There wasn't anything else he could do with it now.

He'd never even expected to actually sit down and write something like it. It always seemed unnecessary, something he could push off until later and later and later. But now... Now it seemed prudent. As he tucked the document into an envelope and sealed it, pressing his ring into the warm wax of the seal, Lord Nasher's order echoed through his mind. _"The Knight-Captain is more important than the rest of our allies combined. Keep her safe, at all costs. If it comes down to your life or hers... Make the right decision, Nevalle."_ Quickly, Nevalle scrawled the date on the envelope, along with instructions that it be opened in the event that he did not survive the mission. Then he stood next to his desk, envelope in hand, for a long and silent moment. Finally, he set it down and left the room.

He'd never thought he'd actually have to write a will.

\-----

_The Last Will and Testament of Sir Nevalle of the Neverwinter Nine_

_Having neither heir nor family to speak of at the time of my death, and the property having been a gift of Lord Nasher upon my admission to the Nine, ownership of my estate in the city of Neverwinter shall revert to the city for whatever use is deemed fit. Any personal property contained therein may be sold to pay off any debts or taxes left unsettled at the time of my death. Any remaining coin from the sale of those items, along with half of whatever coin I have to my name, shall be donated to charities of my executor's choosing._

_The remaining half of my coin, along with any personal belongings left at Crossroad Keep, are left to the Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep to be used in whatever way may best benefit the Keep and its residents._

_The only exceptions to these requests are my Eye of Neverwinter amulet, my sword, and my mother's golden chain. All three are in a small box in the largest drawer of my desk._

_I leave the amulet to Khelgar Ironfist, with the knowledge that he will wear it well and serve with honor. Furthermore, I hereby recommend Sir Ironfist for the position of Captain of the Nine._

_I leave the chain to Cinekina, with my thanks for her friendship and my apologies for not finding time to know her better._

_I would like to be buried with my sword._

_Everything I have done, I have done to serve Neverwinter and her citizens. Please, whatever else you remember of me, remember that._

_-Nevalle_


	4. Assignment+Recruited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted as two separate works, Recruited and Assignment

The girl's dark blue eyes were old, older and harder than they should have been. Those eyes, combined with the fact that the twelve-year-old was already taller than him, were almost enough to send a shiver trickling down Landon's spine. Street rats, the children and orphans who grew up on the streets of Calimport, were always tough. If they weren't tough, they died. But this one was a little different, a little more frightening than even the teenagers who led the street rat packs through brutality and fear. Rumour had it she was a pasha's bastard, and part of Landon wouldn't be surprised if that were true. She had a wariness to her, the same wariness all the strongest pashas learned. It was like she had taken everything soft inside her, everything trusting and human, and locked it away behind a shield of cold suspicion. That same suspicion shone in her hard eyes as she regarded the halfling.

"I have the coin." She brandished a small coinpurse at the halfling.

"Yeah, you got the coin," Landon replied flatly. "But didn't think too hard about where you got it from, did you?"

"Does it matter? It's coin."

He snorted. "Coin you stole from Gram's own men."

The street rat tensed, and the briefest flicker of fear passed through her eye while dread coiled heavily in her gut. Gram was the pasha Landon worked for, the one to whom she ultimately owed the coin Landon had demanded in exchange for letting her sleep on the streets in Gram's section of the city.

"You fucked up," the halfling continued, relishing her discomfort. Cruelty lighting a spark in his eyes, he fingered his dagger. "Stealing from Gram's men is stealing from Gram. And nobody steals from Gram, least of all some little street rat bitch. You fucked up, and now you're gonna pay the price." The harsh glitter in his eye and the sadistic glee in his declaration made it clear that the transgression would cost her more than just coin.

As he was speaking, she started to reach for her own weapon, a dull little knife she'd stolen from a trader. "Don't you touch me," she warned, voice wavering just a little. "I'll kill you." They both knew she wouldn't be able to, and Landon just chuckled darkly in response. He drew his dagger and started for the girl, but then stopped abruptly when a command snapped out from the darkness at the end of the alley.

"Enough, Landon." A short, lean man emerged from the shadows. He limped a little, and his thick black hair was peppered with white and grey. He was an intimidating figure in spite of that, dressed in fine clothes and possessed of a whip-like wiry strength that hinted at deadly martial skill. His expression was neutral, even verging on kind, but his pale blue eyes were cold as ice.

After freezing for a startled moment, Landon reacted wildly. He slammed his dagger back into its sheathe, and bowed low to the man. "Pasha Gram, I didn't realize you were there..." He was ignored.

"Don't even think about running," Gram ordered, gaze drilling into the street rat and pinning her in place. She was frozen like a startled animal, little knife still in hand. His tone brooked no argument.

Still ignoring Landon's bowing and scraping, Gram approached the girl. His eyes never left hers. "You're the little girl who stole from my men?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

Finally, she found her voice. She tucked the little knife away, painfully aware that attacking the pasha would mean death. "Yes," she answered, struggling to not let the wave of panic that weakened her knees slip into her voice. Her eyes were wary and her shoulders were tense, hands clenching into nervous fists by her sides.

"Do you have a name?"

She shook her head.

The pasha looked her up and down, nothing of his thoughts clear in his face. After a long moment of silence he spoke again. "You are working for me now. You will assist the other street rats in my employ with collecting tribute from the beggars in my section of the city. If you serve well, you will be rewarded. Do you understand?"

The girl's eyes widened, her surprise obvious. "I- yes!" she exclaimed. "Yes, I understand. Thank you, sir!" In her moment of excited hope, the child that she was broke through her carefully constructed suspicions. She even dared a small smile. Gram watched impassively. Then, without warning, he leaped towards her suddenly. There was a flash of movement and a brief struggle, and then the girl was on the ground. Blood streamed from a knife wound on her forehead, and the same blood dripped from a knife in Gram's hand.

"You will _never_ ," he said icily, "speak to me in that way again. You will address me as pasha." She squirmed on the ground trying to get back to her feet. Seeing the movement, Gram took a step forward and casually rested his booted foot on her throat. And pushed. "Do not think I am _saving_ you," he hissed. "You are _mine_ now. And if you ever, _ever_ ," he pressed harder, ignoring the way she gasped for breath and pushed against his leg, "fail me, I will destroy you." He held his boot in place for a moment, then stepped away. The girl's struggles ceased, and she lay on the ground gasping. He watched her for a moment, and then pulled something from his pocket and tossed it in the dirt beside her. It was a small silver coin. "Report to Landon, here, tomorrow. He will give you your orders. Landon, you're coming with me."

The halfling had been watching the scene, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and gratitude. Fear as he was reminded of Gram's cruelty, and gratitude that he was not the one that cruelty was directed at. As Gram left the alley, leaving the nameless street rat in the dirt, Landon scurried after him. He paused only to spit on the girl.

She lay on the ground for a long time after they'd left, unmoving. Then, slowly, her hand reached out and her fingers curled around the coin Gram had dropped for her. She clung to it tightly, like a lifeline. When she rose to her feet she didn't even bother to look at the silver, just clutching it like it was her only chance for survival.

It was.

Her dark blue eyes were old, older and harder than they should have been. But now there was no little girl behind them, no trusting child locked away behind a shield. That little girl was dead, suffocated by the pressure of Gram's boot.

The street rat left the alley with her knife in one hand and the silver in the other. She had been offered a chance to survive- a slim and dangerous chance, and opportunity to spend the rest of her life dancing on the edge of a knife in service to Pasha Gram. It was barely a chance at all.

But she was going to take it.

 -

"Street rat!" Thorn, sitting in a corner of the empty dining hall and sharpening her iron knife, looked up when she heard Landon's nasal summons. Scanning the room, she spotted him glowering at her from next to the door that led to the hall to Pasha Gram's study- his throne room. "Gram wants to see you!" he called impatiently.

Stowing her whetstone and sheathing the knife, she rose easily to her feet. She kept her eyes trained on Landon as she crossed to where he stood. Five years had passed since Gram had "recruited" Thorn off the streets, and since then she had grown considerably in height, strength, and skill. But Landon, now Gram's own second-in-command, was still far more powerful than she in the ways that really mattered. Still, he felt threatened by the human, and hated her for that. And his hatred made him danegrous.

She stopped a few feet away, still no breaking eye contact. "The pasha has work for me?" she asked, more to confirm her suspicions than out of any real curiosity. Gram only summoned her to assign her a job or when he wanted sex. And by all accounts he was still wrapped up with the latest harem girl he'd acquired.

"No, he wants to have a rousing political debate with you," Landon sneered. "Yes, you've got a job. Now _move_ , street rat." He suddenly shoved past her, and Thorn only barely stopped herself from reflexively burying her knife in his throat.

Street rat. He was the only one who still called her that. Not that she really cared. Gram had started calling her Thorn after a mission a couple of years after she'd started working for him. She had been sent to kill the owner of a brothel called the Desert Rose, who'd failed to pay Gram sufficient tribute. She had been 14, and posed a courtesan to gain entry to the building. It had been her first solo mission. Gram seemed to find the name funny, and after a few months it stuck. But Landon seemed to enjoy denying her that name, calling her street rat as if in an attempt to remind everyone of her background. The fact that she didn't seem to give a copper bit what he called her just fueled his anger.

For a long moment, Thorn just watched Landon's back as the halfling stalked away. Her carefully-maintained mask of impassivity hid her thoughts as she fell into her old habit of identifying, dissecting, and interpreting each facet of his behaviour. Such analytical suspicion had saved her life more than once, and even as she turned to go report to Gram her mind was made up. She would have to start watching Landon more closely.

The guards by the door to the pasha's study nodded to Thorn, recognizing her as one of Gram's favored blades. She didn't return their greeting, and pushed open the doors to the room. Unike so many Calimshite pashas, Gram didn't surround himself with fine luxuries and ostentatious displays of wealth. In fact, the finest thing in the room was Gram's intricately-carved desk, a masterpiece of deep red wood inlaid with precious metals. The rest of the furnishings were quite plain- even threadbare to an extent. he had no tapestries or paintings hanging from the walls, and no shelves or display cases to show off finer parts of his collected wealth. Instead he had just the desk, a small bookcase, and a large bed in the corner. There was a woman lying there, collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Thorn could hear her crying softly, and kept her gaze carefully away from the bed.

Gram was at his desk, writing in a journal. He didn't look up when Thorn entered, but instead finished his sentence and blew on the ink to dry it. Once he was satisfied it would not smudge, he closed the journal and set it aside. Then he wiped the excess ink from the tip of his quill and set that ever-so-neatly on top of the journal. Only then did he look up at Thorn. "Ahh, my dear!" he said with an enthusiasm that didn't reach his eyes. "And how is my lovely rose?" He rose from his seat as he was speaking, and crossed the room to stand in front of Thorn. He was close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin, and it was only thanks to her experience that she did not flinch away when he brought up a hand to stroke her cheek.

Flinching only led to worse things.

Gram had first taken her into his bed two and a half years after he'd found her. In any other society he would have been called sick and twisted for what he did to her, but the world of the pashas was far from civilized. Really, it was a surprise he'd waited as long as he had. The powerful made the rules, and few were more powerful than Gram. So he'd taken her, and used her. Hurt her. Scarred and abused her. And eventually Thorn had learned to shut herself down completely, to stop feeling and let her deep blue eyes go utterly dark. It was like a miniature death, falling in to that cold and emotionless state of being. But it was better than feeling, and safer than reacting.

She let herself slip into that state now, as his touch reminded her of dark nights and darker agonies. The small bit of light in her eyes went out, and there was no emotion in her tone when she spoke. "Landon said you have work for me."

Gram chuckled darkly. "So straight to the point! And so flat, so boring... You never sing for me anymore, little rose. I _liked_ it when you sang." Gram's favorite song was screaming. "Maybe after your work is done I'll try to make you sing, hm?" He didn't wait for Thorn to respond. "Have you heard the most recent reports from the Allinah-bah streets?" he asked, referring to a district of the city under Gram's control. "I am being _challenged_." He sounded amused and almost delighted, as if he found the thought a such a challenge completely novel.  He returned to his desk and retrieved a tightly-rolled scroll from a drawer. When he spread it out on the desk, weighting it down with an inkwell and a book, it proved to be a map of Calimport. He made a show of studying it intently, but he glanced at Thorn out of the corner of his eyes when he spoke. "Challenged by a pasha named Kebel."

That broke Thorn out of her impassive state. Her hands curled into white-knuckled fists, and she drew in a sharp breath. Part of her mind was cursing, screaming at her for letting such a reaction slip through. The other part, the larger part, was in turmoil. She knew who Kebel was.

She knew he was a pasha, and controlled several streets bordering Gram's territory. She knew he specialized in narcotics and drug trafficking. She knew he had a reputation for extreme brutality. She knew he was a rapist. She knew he had once raped a woman and gotten her pregnant and abandoned her, leaving her broken and starving and begging in the streets. She knew that woman had given birth to a little girl, only to die six years later. She knew that girl had survived the life of a street rat, and risen to prominence under Pasha Gram's regime.

She knew she was that little girl.

She knew Kebel was her father.

She had gone to his household once. Desperate and scared and alone, she had remembered the name her mother had told her only once and sought out Kebel. She had hoped he would feed her, give her clothes, maybe even accept her as a daughter. Instead he beat her bloody and left her in the streets for the rats and wild dogs.

Yes, she knew Kebel.

Gram just laughed at her reaction. "Oh, dear. I hope you're not frightened of the man, Thorn."

His laughter and mocking tone were like a knife in her guts, and she drew on that pain and fear to force herself back into her freezing calm. "No." It was all she could say.

Gram sneered. "Good." Then, strangely, a smile broke out across his face. It was a cold and deadly smile, more suited to a bleached-white skull than a human face. "Because I'm sending you to kill him." His smile broadened when he saw Thorn's eyes widen in surprise. "He has been a thorn in my side for too long. You will take five other blades and you will kill everyone in his household. There will be no one left alive by dawn tomorrow." He stared at her, those pale blue eyes commanding and haughty. "You will not fail." Then he turned his back on her and went back to his map.

Thorn was frozen in place for a long moment, too busy struggling with renewed turmoil to try and leave. Eventually, one thought rose to the forefront of her mind, silencing all else. _Kill Kebel_. "With pleasure, Pasha." Her tone was carefully neutral, but her eyes were lit with an intense fire. She bowed and left, already rehearsing and discarding plans in her mind and considering which of Gram's other blades she would bring with her.

This was not a mission she intended to fail.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taken more or less verbatim from a Tumblr RP

"I don't know if you've ever ventured to the far north, past the Spine of the World. There are some who call that mountain range 'The Wall', and that's an appropriate enough term. When you're approaching it from the south it seems like just that- a wall, cutting off the north we know from the bitter land beyond. To pass through the Spine, even following the trade routes, is dangerous. There are goblins and orcs in the mountains, all ready to prey on underguarded caravans. But to go beyond the Spine is more dangerous still. There you face yetis and remorhaz, great worm-like insects with a belly full of fire. But the real danger beyond the Spine isn't that which lives there. It's the land itself. Ice and snow paint the world white, and at times the wind blows so fiercely that it is all you can do to stand, much less keep track of where you're going. In some storms the sky itself disappears, and all you can see is the flurries flying through the air around you. The only ones who can survive such are the barbarians who thrive on the tundra. They are a strong people, with a long history and a rich, if wild, culture.

"But they are not the only ones who call that cold land, Icewind Dale, their home. By the lakes at the foot of a mountain called Kelvin's Cairn stand the villages of Ten Towns. It's a place for people who don't have any other place to call their own." She smiled. "Perhaps that's why I like it. The towns are rough, and in some ways as wild as the land around them. But there is an honesty to the place, a sort of upfrontness lacking in so many southern cities.

"Bryn Shander is the chief of these towns, and serves as the capital of the area. It was about five years ago that I arrived there, not for the first time, with a trade caravan originating from Neverwinter. Taking on guard work for such caravans, to the Dale and other places, often provides me with what income I find myself in need of. It's good work, honest and never boring. But I'm getting distracted... Yes, I arrived in Bryn Shander late at night, and was paid a handsome sum by the caravan leader. The trip had been plagued by bandit attacks and as willing as I was to fight to defend the caravan, I was eager to relax. I went to a local inn and secured a room for the night, then sat for a while in the common room with an ale and a warm meal.

"Well, after a while another of the guards from the caravan arrived. He had had the same ideas as me- a warm bed, a hot meal, and ale. He and I had fought together and shared watch many nights on the trail, and we ended up drinking together that night. It was his idea to give Draug some ale. I'd never thought of such a thing, but the horrible beast seemed to like it well enough." Here she nudged the wolf affectionately with her foot. "And it wasn't bad. So I drank more than I should have." Her smile turned sheepish. "By the end of the night I was in bed with the guard, had no idea where Draug was, and had lost  my best knife." An embarrassed blush tinged her hairline. "The next morning the guard was snoring in my ear, and I found my knife stuck in the bar downstairs. Draug, however, was nowhere to be found in or around the inn. Finally I picked up his tracks a short ways down the road. took me the better part of an hour to track him to a small house on the shore of Maer Dualdon. When I knocked on the door a terrified woman in a green and brown outfit answered. I asked her about Draug, and without saying a word she opened the door further and pointed. And there Draug was- asleep on her dining room table!" She shook her head and nudged the wolf again. "The only thing I could ever guess at was that he had mistaken the woman for me, since we were wearing the same colors. He followed her when she left, scaring her half to death, and then ended up passed out on her table. Poor thing had been to frightened of the idiot to sleep or do anything else." Aruya laughed. "I ended up having to carry him out of her home, and all the way back into town. By the time I had returned to the in the guard had disappeared, stolen my good cloak, and left behind his underclothes. And the sad part is, he was one of my better 'romantic' encounters.

"So that's my tale, as mundane as it may be compared to yours. And now you know that I can't hold my ale and that my 'treasured companion' is a fool and an embarrassment." She grinned at Cinekina. "If you want to flee now, I won't stop you."


End file.
